


Hawkeye Action Figure - 7"

by Eligh



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Dealing Realistically with Grief, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:31:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3641859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's crashing with Phil's team while he works some things out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hawkeye Action Figure - 7"

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through Fraction's Hawkeye #21. 
> 
> This story's kinda all over the place, but in my experience, that's the reality of dealing with grief.

Clint’s lounging across Lola’s passenger seat, both boots over her windowsill and hanging down, one arm lolled lazily against her dashboard and the other wedged between his chest and the backrest of a buttery leather seat. His head’s somewhere near the gearshift, and while Clint’s sure that the position he’s in no way _looks_ like it could be comfortable, it somehow sorta is?

He carefully angles his Gatorade into his mouth (drinking upside down is difficult, but not impossible) and considers his situation.

His comfort level is probably borne of the fact that he is currently in Phil’s car. It’s just—Phil’s alive? Which is awesome, and unexpected, and sorta out of the norm for SHIELD agents at the moment. It’s out of the norm for most people at the moment, really, because there’s a reason he’s _here_ and not in New York, and the small smile that had unconsciously ticked up his lips while he’d thought about Phil immediately falls.

Because Barney—

Barney isn’t here anymore, and so there’s no way Clint could have stayed. He’d been a week into bender #2 when Nat had called and not-so-delicately told him that he maybe needed some time, and hey, here’s this old SHIELD hangar he should check out, and then? Surprise Phil.

He smiles a little to himself again while taking another careful drink, and then _of course_ thinks about Barney (because his life seems to be stuck in one big despair spiral) and is immediately hit with a wallop of guilt, and so he chokes a little on his Gatorade and then someone’s smacking his boot and Clint angles his head up to glare, and oh. Well. Vacation’s over.

“…you spi…purp( _le?_ )…aid ( _purple Gatorade!_ )…car, so help m…goin…to fin( _ish?_ )…job…”

No, that’s not clear enough. “What?” Clint asks, and cocks his head a little. Phil narrows his eyes and glares for a moment at the conspicuous lack of plastic in Clint’s ears. He lifts his hands.

_/you spill in my car/_ His signing’s a little stiff, but it’s clear and somehow abruptly becomes more menacing? _/I kill you/._ Phil pauses. _/out now asshole/_

Clint stares at him. Everyone’s been tiptoeing around him since the whole ‘deafened and almost died and then your brother _did_ die thing.’ Apparently Phil is not everyone. Clint’s half aghast, half impressed, and half turned on.

He is aware that he has too many halves. He’s complex person. Lay off.

Phil, undeterred as always by Clint’s patented ‘fuck off’ stare, mimes cocking a revolver and points his finger at Clint’s eye.

“Alright, alright,” Clint grouses, but he’s not really upset. Hell, the whole reason for crashing the Bus and hijacking Lola’s passenger seat ( _passenger_ , not driver. He’s not suicidal) was to get Phil’s attention, and now he has it. Mission accomplished. So he wriggles carefully around, has a moment of pure terror when he’s pretty sure he’s going to drop his open drink on the floor mat, saves it because he’s a badass motherfucker, then has _another_ moment of pure terror when he thinks he might have scratched Lola’s exterior panel with a boot, realizes he didn’t because Phil isn’t reaching for his gun, and finally jackknifes into a stand just outside the car.

He grins.

Phil’s eyes are still narrowed. _/6 from U-S judge/_ he signs. _/you mess/_

“Aw, harsh,” Clint complains. Phil inclines his eyes toward the ceiling but then jerks his head in a ‘come with me’ fashion and walks away. Clint follows. What else is he gonna do?

They walk for a while in silence (like it’s much of a choice), Phil occasionally checking in with the others on his new team. They watch Melinda and Skye spar, Fitz and Simmons hover at polar opposite ends of the labs, and Mack putz in the hangar. Phil signs some papers one of the Koenigs presents him, and takes a short (apparently uninteresting, judging by his facial expression) phone call. Clint doesn’t watch his lips during the conversation, because that’s rude.

No one pays Clint any attention. He wonders if Phil had a word with everyone, or if it’s just that he’s old news.

They finally end up outside Phil’s office, where the man in question stops and turns to Clint, one hand resting on the handle but not quite turning it. He looks hesitant, which is weird.

“Do not be mad,” he says. His words are clear on his lips.

There is very little that this man could do that would make Clint mad. Hell, if death and disloyalty didn’t break their relationship, he’s pretty sure nothing would. He shrugs. “Okay.”

Phil searches his face for a moment, but then lets them in with no further fuss. He shuts the door behind them and heads straight to his desk, in which he rummages for a moment before coming up with something in a clear plastic case.

It takes Clint a moment, but then it registers: it’s one of those new stupid ‘Avengers line-up’ doll things. Phil looks down and sighs before he hands it over.

It’s—

[The hell is this.](http://shop.marvel.com/hawkeye-action-figure-marvel-select-7/mp/16897/1000242/) Clint’s staring at the thing, his eyes wide, because seriously what the hell. “Is that my _dog_?”

He misses whatever Phil’s saying because he’s busy tearing at the plastic, trying to get the damn thing out. “The fuck?! You can change my head so I’m all beat up, what the _hell_!” He glares up at Phil, who’s watching him with a faint air of concern.

“To be…air( _fair?_ )…you…bee up( _beat up_ )…lot…”

“That’s not the friggin’ _point_!” Clint snaps, finally getting the package open. Miniscule arrows rain to the ground. “It’s just, it’s, I mean _Lucky_ , and it’s like, it’s going too far, and…” he trails off, the replica of himself clutched in one hand, his damn _dog_ in the other. “Damn it, Phil,” he says, soft enough that he can’t even feel the words reverberate around his skull.

/ _I want you see before_ / Phil signs awkwardly. / _scary_ / he shakes his head and waves the word away. / _startle_ /

“Yeah,” Clint says. He gets it: Phil wanted him forewarned. He’s never been impressed with Avengers merchandise. “Thanks, man.” He looks down at the toy, and after a moment, snorts in a sort of tired amusement.

Phil gives him a questioning look.

“Nah, just,” Clint laughs again. “Tony’s gonna be pissed. I bet he doesn’t have a toy line for any of his dumb robots. My _dog_ , though.” He’s smiling now, and holds up the mini Lucky. It’s got a little doggy smile on its little doggy face.

“I wonder,” Clint says, as he gently puts the toy dog down on Phil’s desk. The model of himself he deposits with less care, though he wouldn’t be Hawkeye if he missed how Phil reaches out and snatches it up, saving it from an untimely meeting with the cement floor. Clint fishes in his pocket and emerges with two pale grey slips of plastic, which he screws into his ears. “You think they’ll do a pet line for all of us? Natasha’s got a cat.”

“She says it is absolutely not her cat,” Phil tells him gravely. It’s nice to hear his voice.

Clint scoffs. “It’s totally her cat.” Phil nods in placid agreement, then bends and picks up the fallen accoutrements that came with the little figurine: a couple arrows, a tiny bow, the replacement (beat up) head.  He looks at it for a moment, and then drops it in the trash.

“I want you to stay here as long as you need, Clint,” he says. “And if I can do anything…”

Clint smiles. “You’re practicing sign.”

“I’m terrible at it,” Phil says, shaking his head and laughing a little. “But since you refuse to wear the aids most of the time…”

“They itch,” Clint says defensively, but he’s smiling, too. “And there’s this weird sort of humming?”

Phil’s eyes widen. “No, that’s just the base.” He leans in a little, and mock-serious, says, “I think it’s the Koenigs’ replication pods.”

Clint barks out a laugh and then claps his hand over his mouth. “There’re at least three of them,” he says though his fingers. “Right?”

“Five,” Phil corrects, and then they’re both leaning against Phil’s desk and giggling.

“I missed you,” Clint says softly once they calm down. They’re shoulder-to-shoulder on the desk, Phil a solid, _real_ weight against his side. “I mean, shit, I—I mean, I thought you were dead. Even though I shoulda known better. But I really friggin missed you.”

It’s sudden, but not unexpected. One moment they’re looking at each other, and the next? Phil’s fingers guiding his chin, and Phil’s lips on his. It’s soft, and kind, and not what Clint’s used to.

“I’m sorry,” Phil says a moment later, though he doesn’t move his hand, and he certainly doesn’t _look_ sorry. “I should have asked, and this probably isn’t the best time.”

“No, it’s okay,” Clint says faintly. “It’s good.”

Phil nods, because of course it’s good. It’s a foregone conclusion. “I missed you, too.” He leans in, just barely brushing his lips over Clint’s cheek. He’s so damn tender, it just about breaks Clint’s heart. “I’m here, okay?” Phil says, and it’s ridiculous, because Phil’s got a covert organization to run, and an alien mystery on his hands, and Clint’s just some fuckup of a superhero whose action figure comes with _realistic beat-up action_ , but Clint believes him anyway.

“If you want to talk,” Phil says. “About anything. About Barney. About New York, or any of the Avengers, or hell, about what to have for dinner or this ridiculous weather. I want to be here for you.”

Clint lets out a little choked-off breath and leans in, rests his head against Phil’s sternum. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He just sits there for a minute, Phil’s arms wrapped comfortingly around his shoulders. They breathe together, and Clint starts to feel the tight, unhappy desperation that’s been curled around his heart loosen a little.

~

Clint’s lying back on Phil’s bunk, staring up at the corrugated ceiling. “You think Melinda will kill me if I bring Lucky here?”

Phil says something, his words rumbling through his head and onto Clint’s chest. Clint bobs his head. “I have no idea what you just said, but I’m going to take that as a, ‘Yes, Clint, please bring your dog to our super-secret hideout. That is the best idea.’

The puff of exasperated air that breezes over Clint’s chest is as good an answer as any.

**Author's Note:**

> This was half written because I have Feelings that I cannot adequately express about Hawkeye coming to an end, and half because I want that damn action figure so. badly. but I need to wait until I get paid to buy random ridiculousness.
> 
> Also: read [ this article](http://www.ew.com/article/2015/03/02/farewell-bro-how-matt-fractions-hawkeye-changed-marvel-comics) about the comic that better expresses what I cannot.


End file.
